


every kind of way

by lightzout



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Developing Friendships, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Peter is a bad liar, Slow Burn, So many emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11901312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightzout/pseuds/lightzout
Summary: He's slowly occupying a fraction of all her thoughts and everything he does becomes nothing short of amazing.It doesn't take a radioactive spider bite and a Stark-engineered suit for her to notice him. Michelle learns that Peter Parker is pretty extraordinary too.





	every kind of way

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else feel like Michelle and Peter must have grown up together?  
> Michelle remembers five times Peter Parker is cooler than the guy in the suit and the one time she doesn't really care.  
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!

_If the world should end tomorrow and we only have today,_

  
_I'm gonna love you in every kind of way._

 

_(every kind of way - H.E.R.)_

 

he·ro - ˈhirō/: a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities. 

_\--_

**I.**

She remembers the day they meet.

At only 5 years old, Michelle commits to everything with purpose. She admires the way her mother has the ability to weave worlds of beauty and adventure in between whispers at night.

“Reach for the stars my love. They’re closer than you think,” her mother murmurs, lips chaste against her forehead.

The next day, she decides, she’s ready to make her own adventures.

The world is her canvas and Michelle has always been an artist at heart. A bubble of laughter erupts from her chest at the sensation of her fingers dipping into the colourful liquid adorning her small hands. She’s painting a picture of home, an homage to the concrete fixtures and bright lights that sit still at night from her window sill. Stepping back to admire her masterpiece, Michelle feels a surge of pride radiating through her smile.

She turns around only to meet a pair of brown eyes. They stare at each other in silence for a minute until he cautiously makes his way across the table to her. He lifts his pudgy fingers at her drawing and rewards her with an earnest smile.

“Home,” she states matter-of-factly, hand over her heart.

He nods in agreement, stray curls bouncing up and down on his forehead. She squints back at the curious boy, impatiently waiting for a response. Giving her a shy smile, he extends his palm, motioning for her to take it. Brows furrowed, she hesitantly steps forward and reaches for the small hand waiting for her. He only grins when he feels the paint on her fingers ink his own as he takes her hand in his, leading them both across the room to his own haven.

She looks up at the array of blocks, neatly stacked on top of each other. He picks a stray cube from the floor and piles it on top of another. When he notices her standing still in confusion, he hands her the last block, gesturing for her to follow. She stands on her tiptoes, placing the final piece so that his work of art towers above them both.

“Home,” he mimics, hands folded on his chest, admiring the grand structures standing beside them.

“This looks so beautiful Peter! Did you build this?” their teacher coos, full or praise.

“We did,” he answers proudly, only turning to smile at the girl with curly brown hair and wide eyes.

They both get gold stars at the end of the day and she feels a sudden warmth in her chest.

She can’t wait to show her mother her stars and tell her about the boy who helped her reach high enough to get them.

 

**II.**

Shoving her hands in her pockets, Michelle closes her eyes for a second, just enough to feel the wind whip the stray curls that frame her face.

In that moment, she's back in her bedroom watching the light filter through her window against her mother’s silhouette, a hearty laugh falling out of her lips as her head tips back against its frame.

Michelle opens her eyes and it takes a minute to remember that she isn't home. Nowhere close to it. She turns to face her father. They stand still in silence until he moves towards her. Loss does not feel as empty as she thought it would. It sits on her chest with an unbearable weight that pushes against her lungs and for a second she forgets how to breathe.

The world, she's decided, is an unfair place.

It gives and it takes as it pleases. Her mother was nothing but a casualty to its cruelty.

She remembers asking her mother to stay, only to receive a patient smile in response.

"There are lives to save baby," she would whisper quietly.

 

Irony feels like a knife cutting through her body, sharp and unforgiving.

 

Replaying the voicemail in her head, she buries her face in her father’s chest, tightening her grip around his body.

"She was just doing her job," she murmurs innocently. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are wet.

"Your mother has always been a hero," he responds, looking down at his daughter; a blooming young woman who had shot up 3 inches in the last year, fragile and smaller than ever, shaking in his arms.

"Not all heroes have to be martyrs dad," Michelle bites back. "We didn't have to lose her."

She doesn’t like the way it sits on her tongue; a word enveloped in praise more synonymous to damage than rescue. Michelle didn’t need another hero in her life.

"No one deserves to lose anyone MJ," he finally declares, and suddenly she is aware that they are not alone.

Michelle looks over to spot a family of three by the willow tree. She recognizes the mop of brown hair standing in between the young couple. He's carrying a bouquet of white irises in his hands.

The young lady spots them and taps her partner on the shoulder. They make their way across the path towards them, the young boy following with the flowers in tow.

"I'm so sorry for your loss Abe," the young woman says quietly in a voice well-versed in the language of loss.

"Thank you May," her father replies, almost automatically. She feels his grip tighten on her shoulder as his head bows slightly.

Michelle looks at the boy dressed in an ill-fitting sweatshirt that read ‘MIT’ in bright white bold. He reads her mind before she can ask.

"It was uh, my dad's actually. I'm, um, visiting them today," he stutters quickly. She watches his fingers fidget around the bouquet.

"Are those for them?", she asks, motioning to the array of flowers in his hand.

"I, uh, bring them promises every year. I mean they're irises but irises are promises, and um, well they mean promises, like a symbol you know? And um, I'm so sorry Michelle. Do you want to give her a promise too?"

She finds herself nodding, surprisingly enough.

"I think I do," she croaks, biting back the tears threatening to spill across her cheeks.

"Thank you Peter," her father says channelling the kindness that only her mother knew how to offer.

"Thank you Peter," she echoes, accepting the iris and placing it gently on the marble plaque.

Michelle shares a promise filled with love and faith, whispering a silent prayer. She thinks about the boy standing in front of her, about his own loss and the promises he continues to make.

"Only doing what I can," he shares. She cracks half a smile thinking about how her mother would have said the same thing.

**III.**

"Am I going crazy or is Peter Parker low-key glowing up?" Cindy Moon muses one afternoon. It's 3:05 PM and Michelle is sitting by herself on the far-side of the classroom next to the window, waiting for the rag-tag group of budding academics to slowly file in for decathlon practice.

"No, Parker is definitely on some ish," Betty chimes in, giggling as she sets her bag down in front of the podium.  

"Peter is also like, the smartest guy I know," Liz adds, smiling shyly at her own admission.

Michelle has never really been one to participate in the ritual of hormone-fuelled, pre-practice swooning instigated by her fellow peers. However, the topic of Peter Parker seems to pique her interest. From a purely observational standpoint of course.

"I mean, I'm not saying that Parker is all of a sudden a bonafide hottie," Cindy clarifies, shaking her head slowly. "He's still a contender for King Dork but like…also kind of aesthetically pleasing?"

She can't help but snort from behind her book. Tolstoy is ever the comedian, she's prepared to argue, cringing at her own excuse.

Betty cocks her eyebrow and shifts her seat to face the window before asking, "What do you think Michelle? You've usually got an opinion to share."

Mr. Harrison stumbles into the room juggling a stack of books and quiz material, threatening to fall with every stride. Liz jumps down from her seat on the desk to pick up the stray pieces of paper that have managed to slip out of his grasp. The girls follow suit with a chorus alternating between "Be careful", "Watch out", and "Let me help you."

For a guy steadily collecting more tardies in the last semester, Peter Parker has an impeccable sense for timing. He swoops into the classroom just as Mr. Harrison's tower leans on an angle that rivals that of Pisa's, ready to catch the falling literature.

"I've got it Mr. Harrison," he yelps out of instinct. He's all limbs and no finesse, but to everyone's surprise, Parker has managed to cradle the collection of books in his arms, shuffling his way across the room to settle them on their advisor's desk.

He walks to the back of the room sitting next to Ned, already preoccupied with his own notes before anyone can even register what happens.

Michelle continues to watch his hunched figure from the corner of her eye. He runs his hands through his hair, a mess that hasn't been tamed since they were in kindergarten. It flops over his forehead, falling over eyebrows furrowed in painful concentration.

For a second, she's given up any pretence of studying to get a better glimpse of the mysterious and ever elusive Peter Parker. She shifts her gaze only to meet Ned's look of confusion. Panicked, she shoots him a glare, narrow and steely. He flinches and looks straight ahead with a sudden interest in Mr. Harrison's speech.

She ignores the heat that taints her cheeks and focuses on their drills for the remainder of practice.

 

And if she notices that Peter is successfully coasting with a wandering mind at 60% instead of his usual 115%, it’s only because she’s evidently the most observant person in the room.

Liz asks her to stay behind after practice and had it been anyone else, Michelle would have simply flipped them the bird and walked out. Except it’s Liz and Michelle actually likes Liz, in a “I don’t just tolerate your existence” kind of way. She’s kind of her best friend or the older sister she never had, or any sister for that matter. So she dutifully remains seated, waiting for the room to clear until it’s the two of them.

“What’s up?” she asks, leaning back in her chair, absentmindedly doodling away. Liz brushes her hand on her shoulder, a light gesture that causes Michelle to look up from her work.

“MJ, I need your help,” Liz admits, cutting straight to the point.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Michelle snorts, “Me? Liz, what exactly can I do to help you? And I mean that in the best way possible.”

“This is my final year as decathlon captain and I, like yourself I’m sure, want a national championship under my belt,” she rambles. “Like a final legacy of sorts.”

Michelle is about to argue that no, a national championship, while nice to have, is not a necessity in her life. Except it’s Liz, the only person who bothered to say hello on her first day nearly two years ago, who would continue to usher her into a life beyond her books. This was Liz, who was obviously in a state of distress, reaching out to her for support, not just as her captain but as her friend. So instead, she rolls her eyes and listens intently.

“And between all my extracurriculars, Homecoming, and finishing all of my early decision applications, I don’t have the time to ensure that _certain_ members of our team won’t flake out on us,” Liz continues, choosing her words carefully.

Narrowing her eyes, she taps her pencil against the desk nervously waiting for Liz to finish. When she doesn’t, Michelle finds herself asking, “What does this have to do with me?”

“You sit with him, don’t you?” Liz points out as Michelle realizes that it isn’t a question so much as it is a statement of observation.

“I sit at a table by myself that may, or may not, be in close proximity to the one that he and Leeds choose to routinely occupy,” she suggests. “Assuming that we are talking about the King Dork himself.”

There’s something about Liz’s silence and sly grin that makes her shift in her seat uncomfortably, folding her arms in an act of defence.

“Right. Well, can you talk to him?” Liz suggests patiently, wide-eyed and thick lips pouting ever so gently.

“Stop,” Michelle deadpans, hands hovering over her face, trying to conceal her own amusement. “Are you seriously using the puppy dog eyes? Do I look like Parker to you?”

Liz rolls her eyes and shakes the expression of her face before pleading, “Michelle. Please. Anything would help.”

It’s Liz Toomes, her only _real_ friend, whose affection sometimes feels painfully maternal; a dynamic that Michelle welcomes nonetheless. So she nods and mumbles, “Fine. But you have to promise that Flash becomes the last, and I mean this Liz, last resort. I’m talking severe desperation here.”

The two share a look. There is a silent pause before the sounds of their laughter fill the room. For a second, Michelle feels the familiar warmth rising in her chest so she smiles and cherishes the moment.

“I can’t believe I’m allowing myself to admit that we are ultimately relying on Peter’s brain to win this thing,” Liz jokes, picking up her bag from the floor. “Does that make me a bad captain?”

Michelle dramatically holds her hand against her forehead before exclaiming, “Oh Peter! Save us all!”

 

**IV.**

The summer after her sophomore year is absolute bliss. Sometimes it feels almost too good to be true. Michelle has quickly developed a routine and suddenly her life feels full to the brim of laughter, companionship, and dare she admit, teenage affection.

She spends endless mornings continuing her literary education at the coffee shop on the corner of 30th Avenue, sitting in a chair that continues to squeak and a latte too strong for her liking. Her father lets her host weekly movie nights in their once-empty apartment, sandwiched in between Peter, Ned, and all the junk food their adolescent bodies willingly consume. And on the weekends that he travels, she finds herself in the kitchen, cooking brunch for the Parkers, who welcome them into her home with open arms and an unspoken acceptance.

It’s not the same without Liz. Loss looms in the corner, and Michelle can’t help but remember how the world is unfair and cruel to the undeserving. There are nights where she wakes up, hands on her neck, thrashing in her sheets against the heavy weight of burden that sits inside; like smoke clouds lodged in her throat fighting to escape.

She’s not alone, he tells her one night. He feels it too; the fear of solitude seems to complement the overwhelming sense of responsibility that rests on his shoulder.

“Why do you feel the need to carry the weight of the world Parker?” she asks him half-heartedly. It’s supposed to be a joke but she feels the gravity of her question in his silence.

“Who made you the sole defender of injustice Jones?” he counters, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling above them.

Peter is in the middle of trying to explain the relationship between quantum mechanics and experimental philosophy when it hits her. She turns her head to face him, suddenly conscious of her racing pulse and the suffocating fire that ruptures in her chest. He’s still animated in his speech, hands flailing above them and pointing at the glow in the dark stars to aid his explanations.

She loses focus for a second. Which becomes a minute. And it feels like _forever_ has invaded this safe space that they’ve unconsciously built together. She’s too scared to open her mouth and speak, afraid of vomiting Neruda and words like infatuation and romance all over the sanctity of their friendship.

He stops for a second to pause and turns his head to face her. Michelle is acutely aware of the space, or lack thereof, in between them.

“Am I rambling?” he asks her innocently with a sheepish smile painted on his face.

When her hand impulsively reaches out for a bruise blooming underneath his jaw, she chalks it up to hormones. He doesn’t flinch.

“Oh, um. I tripped on my run two days ago,” he stutters. Peter Parker is a horrible liar. That is a fact.

“What a dork,” she mumbles affectionately, pulling her hand back from his face.

The cliche is not lost on her and tonight she’ll entertain the thought of playing a trope in this oddball narrative that is her life.

She’s lying in bed awake, wrapped in his duvet, caught in between dreams of the boy sleeping in the bunk above her and the nightmares that keep her up at night. Whipping out her phone, Michelle reaches out to Liz, her confidante.

 

 _Meshell:_ Do you think Wall-E ever thought about dialling down the emotions with Eve?

 _Liz B Honest:_ I think you’re more Eve and Peter is more Wall-E. Let’s be honest.

 _Meshell:_ Don’t you mean lez be honest? How is America?

 _Liz B Honest:_ I miss you too.

Tucking her phone underneath her pillow, she closes her eyes and starts counting backwards until she’s fast asleep.

Dibs on the top bunk, he had screamed gleefully earlier that night. His seemingly childish insistence suddenly makes sense as she listens to the click and slide of the window, feeling a light breeze enter the room.

 

Michelle Jones is not an idiot and Peter Parker is a horrible liar but she’d rather wait for him to tell her. That’s kind of the way trust works, or at least that’s what she hopes.

Peter comes back just in time to catch her. She is flailing in his sheets and his heart drops because he’s spent too many nights screaming for help that never arrives, choking on the thought of smoke filling his lungs until the taste of dust feels like a permanent fixture in his mouth.

Slowly wrapping his arms around her, he hums the tune she sings silently when she thinks that no one is listening. Her body relaxes against his chest and he whispers words of reassurance against the fabric separating lips from skin.

When she wakes up alone in his room, she begins to panic until she hears the unmistakable sizzle of batter in butter from the kitchen. Throwing on his favourite sweatshirt, still ill-fitting on them both, she walks out to a warm greeting from May and a tender smile from Peter.

He is sporting a new bruise on his wrist and Michelle can’t help but wonder, how do you spare yourself from falling for the guy that does all the saving?

She wants to bask in these brief moments of happiness; a reminder that Peter has always been dutiful even without the red and blue. They are few and far between.

**V.**

“Junior Prom. Thoughts?” Ned inquires one fateful afternoon. Cradling his face in his hands, he gazes longingly at the blonde manning the ticket table in front of the cafeteria.

“Ugh gross. Leeds please, I'm eating,” she pleads, never lifting an eye from her novel as she takes another bite from the apple resting in her open hand.

It's a reflex. Michelle doesn't mean to be rude. But she's comfortable in this little bubble that is full of Ned and Peter and the occasional, and often obligatory, social brushings with the rest of the rag-tag group of budding academics that she now leads. If she was being completely honest, it was everyone else that was the problem.

Ned throws her a desperate look and she almost crumbles because the thing is, she gets it. Unrequited love kind of sucks. Coupled with an inevitable dose of teen angst, she thinks she finally understands the general obsession with the esoteric kind of love, the one she can’t quite explain.

“You can still ask her,” she states matter-of-factly. “My sources tell me that she does not have a date.”

“Peter doesn't have a date either,” he retaliates coyly.

Unwilling to take the bait and lose at the same time, Michelle cocks her brow and evenly replies, “No shit. That internship has gotten him all tied up. Amirite?”

“Touché Jones,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. He knows that she knows but the acknowledging of the knowing hasn't officially happened yet.

“Is MJ right about what?” Peter asks, joining them at their table.

“ _Everything_ -”

“Junior Prom-”

Peter sneaks a bite from her croissant and she looks out the window to avoid the smug look plastered on Ned’s face.

“Everything...about Junior Prom?” he chokes.

“Chew your food Parker-”

“As I was gently suggesting to _Michelle_ , we should probably join the masses in celebrating our youth at Junior Prom,” Ned proposes, eyes searching the room for the blonde.

“Have you asked Betty yet?” Peter asks innocently, taking yet another bite from her croissant.

Michelle smiles victoriously and slides her leftover pie from last night’s dinner towards him as a silent reward. His face lights up and they exchange awkward smiles, all of which she will continue to deny.

Ned groans and buries his face in his hands muttering to himself, “The blind leading the fucking blind.”

 

She is most definitely surprised when she walks into third period gym two days later and Spider-Man is hanging upside-down from the ceiling asking Betty Brant to do his friend Ned a solid and bestow him with the honour of being his date to Junior Prom. Michelle watches silently from afar, only raising her eyebrows in question at Ned who is too preoccupied dealing with an overly excited blonde chanting, “Yes! Yes! Of course yes!”

A blur of red and blue swings past her towards the window and she can’t help but smile when she hears him mumbling, “Spider-Man is not a party trick.”

Michelle corners Ned at lunch as they wait for Peter to finish a missed quiz for AP Chem.

“Didn't know Parker was into playing Cupid too,” she remarks, fumbling with the pages of her notebook.

“I have no idea what you're talking about MJ,” he replies, grinning from ear to ear.

They're in the middle of quizzing each other on imperfect conjugations for their test in Spanish when Flash plants himself in the seat next to her. Ned stops mid _palabra_ and Michelle waits for his _conjugación_ before she notices his presence.

“ _Lo siento_ Flash but are you lost?” she demands impatiently. “We are busy making the most of our institutionalized education here. Meritocracy isn't going to uphold itself.”

He blushes and wow, it is quite the sight to take in.

In what could literally be considered a vain attempt at saving face, Flash runs his hands through his hair and straightens his collar.

“I was actually looking for you,” he declares boldly, managing to find his voice.

“Evidently,” she shoots back. “I'm assuming that there's more to that?”

Ned is stunned. He's struggling to process the whole situation and he has an inkling of what's about to go down. It feels ridiculous to assume that MJ has no idea what’s happening and yet...Ned can’t help but wonder.

Abraham walks by with a bouquet of red roses and passes them off to Flash before winking at her.

“Michelle Jones, would you do the honour of accompanying me to Midtown’s Junior Prom?” he proposes, flowers thrust forward and bent down on one knee.

It is Michelle's turn to blush and she turns to Ned who has his head bent down to face the table, awestruck.

She hasn't really prepared for this properly. They're sixteen so it’s not the first time that she’s been asked out before. She’s more accustomed to the privacy of study halls and library suites where her polite apology is sufficient enough of a response.

Except now they're in the middle of Midtown’s cafeteria at its peak and all eyes are on her.

The world decides to throw her a bone when Peter rushes to their table, oblivious to the commotion around him. He drops his bag next to Michelle’s chair and pops one of her cherry tomatoes into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry MJ,” he babbles, “I got stuck on question #9 and then wasted 5 solid minutes of my life asking myself why this quiz matters, and um, I had to speed through the rest of the test, but not actually speed through because that’s just careless you know?”

Peter is mid-speech when he tunes into the silence. He looks around and forgets to breathe, taking in the entirety of the scene that is playing out in front of him. His eyes widen at the sight of the bouquet.

“Oh my God MJ! Did I forget your birthday?” he sputters. “I swear there was a reminder, one that was most definitely set, and we were going to take you to that theatre in the Village and we had this whole thing planned out and I can't believe I forgot.” His hands are tangled in his hair, and Peter Parker looks more disheveled than usual.

And yet, she finds herself fighting off a grin, turning to Flash with eyes that seem to say more than a polite apology. Because she is absolutely enamoured with the fumbling mess standing in front of her.

“Peter,” she says firmly, “It’s not my birthday.”

“Then what is happening?” he asks innocently. And oh, wow, he's an idiot.

 

An idiot that continues to surprise her.

 

“Oh,” he sighs. “Hey, sorry man, I don’t really want to speak on behalf of anyone so I mean she’s absolutely free to decline because everyone has rights and explicit consent is always cool but um, yeah I was going to ask MJ to prom?” he says rapidly.

Flash is already back on his feet, shoving the flowers towards her. He stuffs his hands back in his pockets and motions the crowd to disperse.

“You don’t even have to say anything,” he says before turning his back and walking away. “I’ll see you nerds at practice.”

Peter plops himself next to her before pulling out his Spanish textbook and stealing one of her mandarins.

“As if I would ever forget your birthday MJ,” he comments while rolling his eyes at her before leaning back in his chair. He opens the book in front of him and her heart stops when she hears his voice, low and slow, as he recites, “ _Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma._ ”

 

_(I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.)_

 

His accent is choppy at best and she cringes at the sad attempt to roll his r’s. It’s a reflex. Her hand is at her chest and her heart thumps with a cadence of a dance she is still unfamiliar with.

 

“Peter, can you not? No one needs that right now. It's _muy_ painful bro,” Ned laughs, slamming the book closed.

“You're welcome by the way,” Peter says casually. “Pick me up at 7? May will definitely need pictures. It's non-negotiable.”

**+I**

The bright lights trickle through her window and land softly against the hardwood floor. Her head is hanging from the foot of her bed. Judith Butler rests on her abdomen and her feet rub against the spine of her favourite Borges anthology. She wills her eyes to close for a minute, conscious of the rise and fall of her chest as her breath begins to steady itself.

It starts lightly and grows into a series of furious tapping against glass that forces her to jump in a moment of panic. She sees a familiar blue and rushes to open the window and usher her guest in.

“Take a girl out before taking her home Spidey,” she whispers watching his figure crawl through into the inner sanctum that is her room.

“First-Aid Kit,” he groans and all she sees is red against the hand that presses firmly on his side.

“For a guy that’s just crawled into a stranger’s home, you’re awfully demanding Spider-boy,” she quips, shuffling across her room to the corner furthest from the window.

Michelle pops a floorboard open and fishes for the kit she purchased a week after she saw him fend off a gang of men on a viral video circulating via the Daily Bugle.

 

He's all limbs and no finesse and superhero or not, there seems to be no exception.

He presses a button on his chest and the suit loosens against his frame, pooling around their feet. Sitting down against her bed, he looks away, avoiding her eyes, flinching at the touch of her fingers.

“What happened?” she asks quietly, working on cleaning the wound, small but fresh nonetheless.

“Mugging in a sketchy alley,” he winces. “Almost got away.”

They sit in silence across each other with too many, and not enough, words to exchange.

When she's finished, she leans against the bed beside him and sighs, “I'm not Florence Nightingale. I need you to know that Peter. You can’t just come to me because you need patching up.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he croaks.

“Like now? What makes tonight so special Parker?” she challenges, refusing to look at his silhouette against the light.

“It's not like it matters,” he argues. “You already knew.”

_“That's not the point.”_

“Because I was afraid that if you knew, I would just be the guy in the suit,” he admits bitterly.

She twists her whole body until they're sitting face to face. Her pulse is racing and if she is quiet enough, she can hear the steady pace of his breath matching the rise and fall of her own.

“Peter Parker. I don't know if you know this, but everything you do is kind of low-key amazing,” Michelle confesses.

As she kneels in front of him, head bowed to avoid his gaze, she is conscious of the vulnerability that rests between them.

“It's kind of an occupational hazard,” he teases, letting out a small chuckle because of course Peter still has the energy to laugh at his own jokes.

She brings her hand to cup his jaw, finally looking straight into his eyes.

“No, I mean you Peter. Peter Benjamin Parker,” she repeats, slowly peeling his mask off his face. “I've always been in awe of you, loser.”

He takes her hands in his and caresses them gently. She lets go and grips his wrists as she leans in, whispering against his lips, “Spidey is pretty cool but I'm counting on Peter Parker to catch me when I fall.”

Moving his lips against hers, he feels his body light up. She wraps her arms around his neck as she deepens the kiss.

Michelle pulls back and wipes his lips with her thumb. She hears the thud of footsteps in the hallway and remembers that her father happens to be home tonight. Of all nights.

“Michelle?” he calls, voice echoing in the emptiness of their home. “You okay honey?”

Peter stifles a laugh, gripping at the bandage on his side.

“Just reading out loud. To myself! Good night!” she screams, closing her door shut.

 

“I should-”

“You should-”

He searches her eyes for something more and she gives him a knowing smile before saying, “Not that this isn't fun, but I kind of need our AcaDec star on top of his game tomorrow so, get some sleep buddy.”

She watches him disappear into the night amongst the lights that bring her comfort. It’s not so bad having a hero around, she decides. Spider-man is pretty cool too. 


End file.
